


All The World In A Few Inches

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Amputation, Dehumanization, M/M, Ramsay is his own warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8156575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The notion of a ‘future’ is something we often hold in our minds without much thought. Would even such a creature as Reek hold unconscious notions of a future free from Ramsay? What would it take to bring those notions into the light, and flay them away?





	

It would be a lie to say that Reek harbored anything that could be considered “pride,” but he did have a certain secret fondness for his left hand. Not that he told anyone, not that it was anything to be proud of, but each time he presented his hands before his master, or counted his fingers alone in the kennels at night, he cherished the five whole digits on his left hand. The skin was scarred, the bones broken and healed poorly, but all five fingers remained intact. He’d already lost two on the right hand, and far too many toes, so this was a special distinction.

 

That was, until he dropped the wine pitcher that evening.

 

He shook always, weak with hunger and cold and lack of sleep, but practice had made him deft enough to wield a razor and shave his master, among other things. It was not merely weakness that made the pitcher slip from his hands. When Roose Bolton’s tone turned sharp against Reek’s master, he flinched in the act of pouring. Inches from Lord Bolton’s velvet voice, he could feel the words like arrows finding their mark in his master’s heart.

 

His flinch caused the wine to splash onto the table, which set off a chain reaction of disasters. Reek fumbled to keep his grip steady, but in doing so sloshed wine across the table and Lord Bolton’s lap before he lost the pitcher entirely. It shattered on the floor by his mangled feet and he felt the liquid tickle his skin as he did everything he could to keep from bursting into tears.

 

Instinctively, he was on his knees, begging for forgiveness. But Roose Bolton did not care for such displays, and he waved Reek away. Reek obeyed, struggling to his feet and dashing off as quickly as he could to clean the mess, but he knew without having to look. Tonight would have been trouble even if he hadn’t made this mistake. Now, it would be so much worse. The dread overwhelmed him, and he couldn’t stop little noises of fear from coming up his throat as he cleaned his mess. His master had pointed out how much his whimpers sounded like a dog, now, but he couldn’t help it. Fear was a creature of its own, a predator that reduced him to nothing.

 

Waiting in his master’s chambers for his return, Reek had to constantly pull his fingers from his mouth. He did it without thinking to comfort himself but it was a bad and nasty habit, and his master would punish him more if he saw it. This was bad, this was bad. His mind dashed everywhere like a woman in the woods, running with ragged breaths in no direction and all directions at once. Occasionally, everything would grow white at the edges with terror, and Reek had to remember to breathe. When was the last time he’d made such an awful mistake?

 

Breathe, he had to breathe. Hands down, deep breaths that rattled in his skinny chest. He’d certainly made worse mistakes before. Once, when he hadn’t understood how upset Lord Bolton’s insults made his master. Another time, when his broken teeth had snagged on his master as he pleasured him. And of course, there were earlier times, before he truly knew his name…Yes, it had been worse, before. He could weather whatever punishment his master dealt. And besides, it wasn’t as though he didn’t deserve it. It had gotten all over Lord Bolton’s fine clothes. When had he become so weak that he couldn’t even pour wine? Weak, weak, weak.

 

He focused on his outstretched hands, the left and the right. His traitorous right hand with its missing fingers, and his normal human left hand. He cradled his right in his left and squeezed, but there was no warmth in it. The pressure against his aching bones did remind him to breathe, though.

 

Footsteps, the creak of the door. He was here. Reek dropped to the floor in apology, but didn’t dare say a word until his master ordered it. Some days the words poured from him like a river swollen with rain, messy and unintelligible and without end. His master hated that, even on the best day.

 

“There’s my bad dog. What do you have to say for yourself, Reek?”

 

“I’m so sorry, Master,” he rasped, eyes glued to the floor and the heavy boots before him.

 

“Reek.”

 

This meant _eyes up_ , but meeting his master’s icy gaze sent a whole new wave of fear through him. In times like this, his master resembled his father so much. But unlike Roose Bolton, his master never practiced restraint.

 

“You cannot be so careless. You know that, right? Whether you’re serving me and the boys, or my father, or a whole table of lords and ladies, I expect you to be able to handle such simple tasks. I know you’re a stupid dog, but perhaps you’re even stupider than I thought.”

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how—” No. No excuses.

 

“You don’t know how you should be punished?” His words glowed warm with malice.

 

Reek cringed at the thought, but didn’t protest. His master reached down and patted his head, a gentle fluff of dirty white hair that brought forth an animal response. Yes, a punishment was coming, but any shred of human comfort was an incredible treasure. His entire scalp tingled, dispersing some of the dread.

 

“My poor little thing. Don’t you worry. I know just how we’ll fix this. Give me your hand.”

 

Reek looked up and chewed the inside of his cheek as he raised his shaking right hand. When he served at the table, he covered the stumps with a thin rag, but it did little to hide his mutilation.

 

“Oh, no no no, Reek. Your left hand.”

 

His gaze shot back up, the world narrowing to the floating lights of his master’s eyes. “What? M-Master, please, I’m sorry, what?” What was he even saying? The river of panicked nonsense began to flow, swirling currents of _what, what, what_.

 

“It’s high time we even you out, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait, but reached for Reek’s left hand and entombed it in both of his. Big, warm, strong, whole.

 

Reek couldn’t breathe. “Master, n-no, please, I n—I need it, please, I—” There was no air. The fingers in his master’s grasp began to tingle with numbness, the first sign he would faint.

 

His master was laughing. “What do you _need_ it for, Reek? No, really, tell me! What do you think you would do with this miserable paw? Climb out the window and escape? Pleasure a woman?” He bent down so his wine-soaked breath smothered Reek. “Draw a bowstring? Is that what you planned to do with this worthless chunk of meat?” He squeezed the ruined bones in his hands, and Reek howled. “Acting like you have any say in what happens to your disgusting corpse. You are _mine._ Every last inch, until you’re dead in the ground.”

 

Reek’s face was soaked as his eyes and nose fed the river of his panic. “Y-Yes Master, of course, always, forever, I’m so sorry!” There wasn’t enough air for his words and his breath. His head was already beginning to roar, threatening unconsciousness.

 

“‘I need it,’ what a load of rubbish! Do you need it so you can make me look a fool in front of my father? Why do you think you need any more pieces than I say you do? I could cut off your every fucking limb right now, and leave you as a worm on the ground. Do you understand?”

 

It was too much. What had Reek been thinking? Why did he feel so attached to this part of him, this body that was Lord Ramsay’s? Somehow, without ever thinking it, he’d held these notions, these feelings, that someday, there would be a time when he’d need to be as whole as possible. Someday, there would be time without his master.

 

But that was a fantasy. A fantasy he hadn’t realized he’d had until his master dragged it into the light and ripped it from his last remaining human hand.

 

His master saw all of this in his eyes. He knew it all, he always did. When Reek collapsed breathless against his leg, anchored only by the hand in his master’s grip, Lord Ramsay allowed it. One of those strong, meaty hands lowered to caress his crooked shoulders.

 

“Now you understand. Good boy, what a good boy.”

 

His damp face began to soak his master’s breeches, but Reek was allowed to stay there until he got his breath back. His aching back received rough but loving attention from his master’s hand.

 

“Now, about that punishment.” With clumsy care, his master spread Reek’s pale, scarred hand and examined each finger.

 

Reek still felt dazed, saying good-bye to this last shred of hope as he examined the hand with puffy eyes. When all was said and done, there was no good finger to lose. His master enjoyed meticulously flaying the offending digit, and leaving Reek with the pain for as long as he deemed necessary. Usually, this was several days later, when rot and madness had begun to set in. Nothing Reek said made sense, and his whole world became pain. Pain, and a few inches. Then, his master would cut it off. The mere thought of going through this process again brought fresh tears to Reek’s eyes.

 

His master paused his inspection at Reek’s bony thumb. “You won’t need this.”

 

The thumb. The piece that made Reek better than a beast. Of course. Of course. Of course it would be this. His stomach swooped, and he felt dizzy. Still, he was far too empty to do more than cry quietly and wait for the knife.

 

It came, but as it neared Reek’s hand, the blade changed directions, until Reek was presented with the wooden handle.

 

Blinking away tears, Reek gazed up at his master in confusion. What was this? In the past, his master had tested Reek’s loyalty by inviting Reek to turn the knife on him, but he could never do it, and the game had gotten boring. Were they about to play again?

 

“Cut it off, Reek. Cut it off and give it to me. It’s mine, just like the rest of you.” He was trying to appear calm, but Reek could see the boyish glee lurking underneath. Sometimes, his master played at being his father, and it added a sinister layer to the already terrifying situation.

 

“I can’t,” he murmured, staring at the handle of the knife. “I’m sorry. It won’t go through, I’m not strong enough.” Weak, weak, weak.

 

“Oh?” The grin shining down on him brought an image to the muddy surface of his mind, a head messily falling into the mud, after far too much time. When his master’s grin grew wider, Reek knew this was what he’d intended.

 

Memories, untethered, haunted and confused Reek. Someone, not him…The world spun anew and he squeezed his eyes closed.

 

“If you don’t cut it off now, I’ll flay it and leave it for a week.”

 

Reek’s eyes shot open, and his partially-wrapped right hand fumbled for the knife. Like the rest of him, it was bony and powerless. And with his index and ring fingers missing, he struggled to hold the wobbling knife steady.

 

There, pressed onto the floor, it suddenly looked so long.

 

When the knife bit into his flesh, his damp hands lost their grip on the blade, leaving it embedded in the thumb. Reek grit his teeth and screamed through them, but now that he’d started, he needed to finish. What was best? So much blood, pouring from his sick, pale skin. Should he saw at it like meat or hack at it like a sword? It hurt so much. Ramsay always did it in one stroke, so kind, so merciful. He couldn’t think straight through the pain, and kept wobbling the knife in his new wound, making it worse. He almost vomited as he sawed through the bone, and finished the job with his face inches from the floor, inches from leaving this scene. All the blood had fled from his head and rushed to the place where his thumb had been. It throbbed in time with his galloping pulse, and he could hear it in his ears, too.

 

A beautiful, whole, warm hand reached down and plucked away the thumb, but Reek couldn’t follow it without going faint. His master spoke above him, and he sounded happy. Good, good, Reek smiled. Thank goodness, he’d made his master happy. His eyelids were so heavy. The blood poured from his hand, spilling and spreading until it was inches from his nose.

 

Strong arms lifted his body, so light, and floated it through space until it fell upon some furs. His master’s bed? Well, if Lord Ramsay decided to take him now, at least he wouldn’t stay awake for the whole of it.

 

Instead, he felt pressure on his lips. Only when his master pulled away did Reek realize he’d been kissed. “You’re so pale,” he remarked, his voice sweet with sympathy. “Let me wrap up that hand for you.”

 

“Master, thank you, M…” Reek breathed, trying to bring volume to his voice. He needed to make sure his master knew how much he understood. As he turned to leave Reek on the bed, Reek reached out and snagged his sleeve with his bloody hand. “Please, wait, please…”

 

“What’s the matter? I won’t have you bleeding out on my bed, now. We have many more things to do yet.”

 

In his hurry to speak, Reek’s breath grew short. “I was so upset, the way, he spoke to you. He shouldn’t, speak to you, that way, he shouldn’t, hurt you…I was upset, and I dropped it.”

 

His master said nothing to this, but stared down at him for a long while. To Reek, it felt like ages. He felt himself float on the furs for years, locked in his master’s lovely pale eyes.

 

A hand reached down, and he flinched before it brushed against his forehead, through his hair. So warm, so strong.

 

And then he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> My second thrams! Inspired by some morbid showerthoughts. I also wanted to write more gross "sympathetic" Ramram. This goes out to all the beautiful terrifyingly talented thramsay writers who've been keeping me in fic for over two years. Bless your sick, twisted, beautiful souls.


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